I must address one of the most pressing issues facing fashionable women of a certain age in Muswell Hill. Old women’s shopping trolleys. There is no doubt that the jury is out on the merits of the portable shopping trolley, but in a post-pram world who is the idiot? The lady with the rolser or the lady who repeatedly pops to the shops for two items and returns with six heavy carrier bags, limited blood suppply below the wrist and mild to moderate lower back pain?
I had always considered these perambulating bags to be the preserve of the Nora Batty generation but in a curious, and seemingly localised phenomenon, the well-dressed, fashion savvy sisters of Muswell Hill are rocking the Rolsers in their numbers.
My initial reaction of horror gave way to curiosity and in a recent shocking development I found mysef buying a cheapo version of the Rolser from Ikea. Three weeks have passed and I have not left the house with my wheelie wonder. The implications of it’s first public outing are building in my mind. I truly feel that once I physically cross the threshold of the house and go into the public arena with this trolley it will mark a seminal physical and pyscological moment of my life. The abandonment of vitality, child-bearing capibilities and spontaneity and an ushering in of papery hands, wide fit shoes and receding gums.
I have asked my fashionable rollster toting mum mate to accompany me on my virgin voyage. I think it may have to be a night time excursion by way of a public hostelry. So if you see a pissed woman on the Hill, erratically wheeling a shopping trolley late at night, please give me a wave. It will boost morale and soften the blow of impending old age and death.
Aplogies for the hound’s long silence. I got temporarily absorbed in a couple of projects but I am now straining at the designer leash to release random ramblings.